#scae.writes

A beast had broken loose, and no one was sure what exactly this beast was. It was supposedly as big as a mountain and could swallow cows whole. It had also poisoned a well and taken away dozens of sheep. Even then the gods knew that man often exaggerated stories and told tall tales.

Nowadays some demigods would be set upon the task, but this tale takes place in that time before Zeus had started to lust after the mortal flesh, so there were few demigods to go around. Thus the twins Artemis and Apollo had been sent out to vanquish this ‘unknowable’ beast.

The beast in question turned out to be a manticore. Manticores were indeed known for eating and kidnapping cattle, even the bravest of dogs wouldn’t stand a chance against a creature that had the mighty body of a lion and the venomous sting of a scorpion. That explained the poisoned water supply as well. And the twins had to give it to the mortals: This particular manticore was indeed quite huge, but still a far stretch from being mountain-sized.

A manticore would pose an impossible threat for mortals, and a reasonable threat for a demigod or two, but for two Gods of Archery, one of which is the actual Goddess of the bloody Hunt, this would be a piece of cake. Or should have been.

Closing in on the manticore took some time, but as the sun set, they finally had the monster surrounded. Necessity is the mother of invention, however, and a cornered beast is the living embodiment of that wisdom. A hunt like this was routine for the twins and they had grown lackadaisical and accustomed to the routine of doing their father’s bidding. The manticore pounced, surprising both archers, and grabbed Apollo by the neck with the vice-like grip of its stinger.

The prospect of the manticore poison being injected into his veins was not a welcome one for Apollo. Even though he was immortal, his godhood would not spare him the burning and flashing pain that came with the sting. And like all men do when they are faced with something they cannot escape from, he started trashing. Begging his sister to shoot the damned tail, so he could free himself.

As a dutiful sister Artemis, put a poisoned arrow herself on the bow, and her breath steady, took aim. Looking back at that moment now, it was almost as if the Fates, or Chaos themselves, intervened. Just as she was about to fire her arrow, the clouds shifted, and the evening sun bathed her in orange light. As beautiful as this may have looked, as much of a blessing from her own brother this may have seemed. It was nothing but a curse. A curse that momentarily blinded and distracted her.

Yet the arrow did fly. It flew straight and true, not towards the vexing tail that had curled itself around her brother's neck, but towards his eyes, its new target. The arrow pierced Apollo’s left eye as easily as it would have an apple. And the scream of agony that Apollo released at that instant reverbed across the known world, every being from the depths of Tartarus to the peak of Olympus heard the cry of Phoebus Apollo.

Mortified at what she had done Artemis amended her fault and unloaded her quiver on the manticore, securing that it now was dead, and rushed towards her brother. But the damage had already been done. One eye was already blind and the poison of the arrow spread towards the other one. The last thing Apollo would see with his own eyes was his sister - his beloved, yet betraying sister - face twisted in anguish running towards him.

As his vision left him, the sun turned an angry, violent orange, bathing the world in blood. And as the darkness crept upon him, he uttered a final prophecy of his own making, aimed at the cause of his new fate: “Your arrows will never fly true, as long as the Sun basks the world in its light”.

That is how Artemis tore apart the sky and veiled the Sun forevermore.

As for me? I’ve always liked fire, been interested in fire, have been intrigued by fire. Sounds awfully similar doesn’t it? Are you afraid I’ll end up the same as them, consumed by my own mania, fallen for The Flame? You know, I might have thought the same throughout the years. But I’ve found that my fascination, pardon my interest in fire differed from others. Where they wanted to see The Flame grow and consume I was content with it being small and staying small. It was the fragility of fire, the struggle for air, that attracted me to it. Fighting against the source that feeds for the chance to live, knowing that too much of it will surely kill you… it is kind of poetic, is it not? I can lose hours of a night just looking at the candlelight, looking at is unending struggle for life. Serenity descends upon me at those times, The Flame centers my thoughts and everything becomes clear.

That candleflame, the limited amount of light it provides does not show weakness. It shows that even small things have the potential to become great. I feel that is the reason why I never lost interest in candles and the form of fire, why my house is littered with them. I just can’t get enough of it. It wasn’t a big surprise then that I made it into a profession and went into studying and eventually teaching Fire Magic. I wanted to know, nay I needed to know what this fireform was and what it could do and become. That knowledge needed to be mine. I wanted others to know about that delightful fire as well, they needed to see the beauty of it.

Others were skeptical and suspicious of me at the beginning, of course. The way I obsessed with the candle was something they had too many times. I’ve heard that there was a betting pool going around on when and how I would finally snap, how I would give in to the hunger of The Flame, and embrace the wildfires. Truth be told though, I hate wildfires, they have forgone all potential, and can only destroy, the heat they give does not nurture, does not sustain, it merely kills.

The candlelight, however, provides you with the light to see, the light to read. The candlelight provides the heat for the teakettle, the heat for the stove. The candlelight is The Flame that gives knowledge, it is The Flame that sustains.

And that’s why I’ve always been fascinated by fire.”

As you enter this Establishment, you’re struck by how ordinary it all seems, almost like any other watering hole or speakeasy this side of town. The air is smokey and you imagine you can taste the alcohol by just sticking out your tongue. (But this is not the time, nor the place to do such silly things, you remember, before giving in to the impulse). Whilst it isn’t happy hour just yet, plenty of patrons have already found themselves in a dark bottle or losing themselves to the delirium of Bismuth Seeds. Looking past the glow of purple Chemlights and the too-cramped spaces that speakeasies like these are known for, you realize what is wrong with this place. Whilst you haven’t been at this for such a long time that you can sniff out every false flag, you know enough when somebody is trying just a bit too hard to put up a convincing facade. And the spaces are indeed too cramped as if somebody is actively trying to make the interior of this place seem smaller than it is. This is not a good thing. You should fold your cards and step away from the table while you still can.

Before you can voice this sentiment, or try and smoothly talk your way out of whatever hellscape is awaiting you, the bodies that have escorted you in, start manhandling you towards the bar. A few customers look up at the sudden commotion, but they all seem too dazed or too drunk to care about it. One of the goons - who is built like a bear, and could easily pass for one, with the magnificent amount of facial hair he sports - rolls up his right sleeve and presses a lodestone into the runes inked on his arm. The Chemlights flicker, the air starts to smell of burnt hair and the portal is formed. You are pushed through the portal, and you make out the sickly green light of the sewer system that doubles as an underground network before a knapsack is put over your head and you lose any sense of how this last leg of the journey will go.

Your sense of smell is the first that returns to you, and you immediately know you’re in deep shit. There will be vengeance, and you will be the victim. It’s the smell of burnt hair again, but it’s stronger now, it’s the smell of static. It’s the smell of The Donna. When the knapsack is removed, you blink and see her blue owl mask looking down upon you. She sits on her throne, surrounded by floating columns of equally blue Chargestones.

“What do we have here?” Her normally cold and unfeeling voice, almost sounds giddy and excited, if you dared to call a ruthless mobster that. (You once did do that, and you still bear the scars from it). “My birdies have brought back the rat who took my Rosetta Stone from me”, she laughs, “now it is time to have fun”. You hear the scraping of metal on stone, as she sharpens her mechanical talons.

Everything would have been so much easier if you had known how the Magicks worked, then you would have never stolen that bloody pebble crackled with blue energy. But you had, and it had thrust you upon the path you now walked. A path where, somehow, you had become the Keeper of the Codex.

You just hope that Donna doesn’t believe in legends, that she will dismiss the paper book as just another possession of the poor and needy. That she has forgotten the lessons about the connection between paper and the Magicks that she herself now uses.

You just hope that her vengeance will be swift.

At first, it was enough to just isolate myself from the others, to make sure my voice could travel for miles without being interrupted or disturbed. My voice was only meant for myself and those I wanted to hear it. But as I grew older that self-imposed isolation wasn’t enough anymore, the mere knowledge of others having the slightest chance to hear what my voice carried along with it was enough to send me into a panic. What my voice was, and what it sounded like was meant to be a secret known to but only a few. So I explained myself to the others of my kind and was relieved to be met with nothing but acceptance and understanding. Apparently, the affliction that I was suffering from was a common quarrel among my kind. And the remedy for it was as easy as it was cruel. I would have to travel far, long past the boundaries of anything I knew, and search for solitary or abandoned locales within the oceans. Only then would I be able to rest. Only then would my voice would be able to roam free and unencumbered by the fear of it being heard.

I left the others a day or two after we spoke, and as a parting gift, I was told a bit more about what was happening to me. I had lost something along the way, while I was growing up, or so they told me. I had not registered that loss and my singing had developed, grown, and eventually overtaken me. And now I had to go and find a replacement, to fill the void that now existed within me. Apparently. In quite the heavy contrast to our conversation, the others had become quite sober about the whole affair. To be honest, I couldn’t quite fathom why they were so grave and sullen about it all of a sudden, if I had lost it, I just would have to find it again, wouldn’t I?

That parting conversation, the looks on the faces of my kin, and my thoughts kept my mind occupied while I traversed the Seven Seas. Only after what felt like days, and when I was certain that I failed to recognize any markings within the ocean surrounding did I cast those thoughts from my mind. Only the advice to find a properly isolated or abandoned locale was still lodged inside of me, and thus I searched. It took some time, and the grottos, caves, atolls, and other isles I encountered never seemed to be the right fit, no matter how desolate they seemed. Whenever I seated myself within them and let my voice free, it just didn’t feel right. Even though that fear of my voice being heard by others had gone, it had now been replaced by the fear of not getting it right. And the void that others had told me existed within me, finally made itself known, screaming to be filled. My voice echoed through the caves or didn’t seem to carry on the wind as well as it did back home. It was just dissatisfying, for nothing seemed to fit well. The void grew bigger still.

Until I found a sunken vessel, along with the cliff that towered over it, like a stalwart reminder of the cruelty that had come to pass. I hoisted myself out of the rough and shallow waters and unto the jagged rocks. I let my voice free, and the song that sprung forth from me was nothing short of euphoric. I had found the place where my voice could be the clearest and roll the furthest. And when that ship appeared on the horizon, I knew what I had lost, and what had been missing. The souls on board that ship would provide me with it. Watching gleefully as the ship headed towards me I did what me and mine have always done. I sing.

He made his way through the depths of the crypt and found his seat and the yew table, and greeted his fellow monsters. Carl the Giant Cockroach had somehow made her before him. Usually, this lazy ladybug was last to arrive. He was seated next to Elizabeth Coraline Frankenstein IV, the current head of the Frankenstein dynasty. As usual Howard Hyde, her right hand was standing at her shoulders, alert as ever. The fourth seat at the table was filled by Alphonse, who spear-headed the Vampiric Coven of New England and was thusly required to attend the meetings. Matilda Burton's half-decomposed head floated at the end of the table, jaw slightly ajar. Her skeletal appendages sprawled across the table. Behind Matilda, Fred could see descendants of Lycaon, members of Unseelie Courts, blights, sirens, and all manner of otherworldly creatures. He was so caught by the sheer number of creatures that had been amassed that it took a moment before Fred realized Matilda had begun to speak.

“…situation is quite grave, fellow cryptids. I have reports from multiple day dwellers that humankind has ceased being scared of us, we must form a plan to combat this development”- Matilda could say no further as a cacophony of shrieks, curses, howls, and other horrible noises were heard throughout the crypt.

“Poppycock!”, shouted one. “Blasphemy!”, added another.

It took some doing and a loose threat to be bathed in Holy Water, but Matilda managed to subdue the crowd of outraged and flabbergasted nightmares. “Unfortunately, it’s true. According to my intelligence operatives, humans have been found not only to tolerate the macabre but also to enjoy it. Iconic works like Nosferatu, Beetlejuice, and Chucky are now described as “comfort movies”. Even worse…” Matilda paused and her floating head bobbed slightly up and down as if she had gagged. “Even worse… some of the humans have taken a weird, disturbing liking to us. They seem to want to seduce us.” She turned to face both Alphonse and Fred. “Vampires and Octopuses seem to be especially popular.”

Silence filled the crypt, as the vampire and the kraken looked at one another, faces contorted in disgust. “They know monsters reproduce asexually, right?” asked Fred. “Like spores and mushrooms?”

“Especially vampires! It’s considered general knowledge that reproduce through offering blood”, shouted Alphonse, “Why don’t they know that?”

All eyes and every eye socket had turned to the pair. Even Burton herself had caught herself staring. “Ahem… well. As I said this is clearly a concerning development and we must make haste, otherwise this will be the death of frights, jump-scares, and nightmares everywhere. Does anybody have any ideas?”

Like fog on a frigid autumn morning, silence filled the crypt once more.

“Aeons of haunting humanity and none of you fools have any suggestions?”

Then a shill shriek sounded from somewhere. “I might have a solution”, said a banshee. “Why don’t we try the mundane stuff? The other week, I discovered by chance that my current victim is especially frighted by exams, especially French. So I tried to replicate it. And he never closed an eye that night! I upped the ante with unpaid bills and the state of the economy for the rest of that week. I’m proud to say he’s an insomniac now!”

Matilda looked at the banshee who was cowering slightly. “You mean that? He doesn’t sleep anymore? Be truthful!” The banshee merely nodded. Mathilda snapped her boney fingers, and a will-o-wisp appeared. “Kevin, I have a task for you. Go to Hell’s Corporate Division, and ask them to send me everything they have on the torturous nature of the mundane.” Kevin flickered, acknowledging his master, before sinking through the ground.

Matilda raised her head and spoke: “Hear ye rotten ones. The Mundane shall be the new Macabre! Go forth and spread terror alike!”

Glass Butterflies

People see me as a fragile thing To be handled carefully I wouldn’t know a thing about it So I keep my distance and watch Hoping to catch that moment that Makes me understand So I can finally move out of this shadow Hoping others will finally notice me

People see me as a butterfly To be adored and gawked at I do not see myself as such a thing So I keep to myself and try to forget Hoping these expectations will Not anchor me in place So I can finally move out of this limelight Hoping others will see who and not what I am

These images of people are all I have A shallow representation of the person they depict A thing without depth, purely superficial

These images people present themselves as are all I have A shallow representation of the person they want me to see A thing without depth, purely superficial

Others fail to notice his quiet moments Seeing only the extravert But by luck, I saw him A butterfly lost in thought Wholly alone And I wish I could tell him I understand

Others fail to notice his passion Seeing only the oddball But by luck, I saw him A fragile thing lost in thought Wholly engrossed And I wish I could tell him I understand

Perhaps one day I will gather the courage and speak

“...Look, I know it’s been ages, but damn it still hurts, you know. And they were all for it in the beginning. They were like “Sammy, it’s so cold up here, why don’t you give us some light? That’s your whole thing is it not? We doubt Father would mind.” And I just did it, I trusted them. They were my siblings, and they just did me in like that. I can still do it of course, even after I fell down. It comes in very handy when I need a smoke.”

You see how this fellow's finger catches fire before he lights the cigarette that appeared between his teeth. His finger? Catching fire? That can’t be right. Looking again, you see the lighter between his finger. How did you miss that? Before you can ask him about it, the man continues.

“It’s also a neat party trick, but then again, it doesn’t really work on you and yours... Back to the matter at hand. I took Father’s empty space and lit it up a bit. It was so unwelcoming, just a dark void with some cold silver here and there. I still wonder if he truly expected everyone wanted to spend eternity there. I added some warm candles here and there, even created a bonfire or two. And just that was enough to give the whole place a better aesthetic. And everybody liked it.

Until Father saw what I had done, he wasn’t a fan, and that was an understatement if I’ve ever heard one. He raged like a madman. And just between you and me - since then I found he is actually a madman. “You dare change this space, Samael. This is my creation, MY PERFECT CREATION. I decide what will happen here, and how it’ll happen here.”

I was completely blindsided by this. Wasn’t I the Lightbringer, brought forth from Father’s mind for a singular purpose? Wasn’t this that singular purpose? I voiced my questions but He would not listen. “You question me? The One who created you? You rebel against the one that gave you your Light? You insolent, spiteful creature! This is no place for one such as you!”

Not knowing how to react, I turned towards my siblings for help. Their faces were full of fright and fear for Father, as they looked from me to Father and back again. I saw what was happening behind their eyes, and as they opened their mouths to speak. I knew they had forsaken me. They rather save their own skin, than help one of their own.”

You realize something. This man is as mad as he claims his father to be, which was about the only sentence you’ve managed to understand so far. This is enough, and you decide to walk away. Or at least you try to. Something is keeping you here, next to this man who is now lying down on this worn-down park bench. Not noticing - or pretending not to notice - your struggle, he resumes his lamenting.

“And thus I was cast down, to this random rock, damned to spend my days on a ball made of hot magma. I bet he found it a fitting punishment. The Lightbringer cursed to haunt a place where everything is already hot and bright. And then that ball of hot magma cooled off a lot. And you lot started to roam around. And eventually, I managed to make my way to the surface as well. The cold winds here remind me of Father’s space. And after eons of heat and eternal flames, it’s good to blow off some steam like this.

The stranger looks at you now. A small smile appears on his face.

“Some part of me feels guilty, keeping you here like this. Forcing you to listen to my plights. I learned in recent decades that it’s healthy to voice your problems and finally decided to do so. By luck, I stumbled into you, so here we are.”

He stands up and puts his thumb on your forehead.

“But then again, once the Devil, always the Devil. Skitter along now.”

You run, as hard as you can. And then you’re his voice one more time

She took her place on the empty bench and waited for the park to become deserted. Somehow, every single other person would slowly leave once Ophelia took her seat. Businessmen in three-piece suits got important phone calls, nannies and mothers alike remembered that playtime was over and that the toddlers had to be put to bed for an afternoon nap, even the few ice cream stands decided to pack up shop and move elsewhere. It had freaked her out at first, this uncanniness, but she slowly had come to accept it as a part of the foul play she now took part in.

Eventually, the King of Hell made his appearance beside her. He would just materialize on the other end of the wooden bench. She had never seen him walk towards her, and probably never would. Lucifer had a flair for the dramatic.

He smiled at her, the quiet fires in his eyes burning just a tad brighter. “Hello Ophelia, how are you at this fine hour?” She felt her mouth moving on its own accord, pulled my strings she didn’t control. “I’m good, thanks for asking. But we’re not here to talk about me. How do you feel, Lucifer?”

The exchange of empty pleasantries was all part of the routine, the ploy that seemed to suggest that they were at least amicable to one another.

Lucifer then would start talking about this and that and Ophelia would take notes, the twisted play starting properly. Despite not understanding a single word Lucifer said, her hand was able to take notes seemingly effectively. The script in which it wrote was foreign to her. The whole affair was a mind-numbing thing, she felt like a robot, doing what her operator instructed her to do.

After what seemed like an eternity Ophelia was starting to drift away when she heard something legible from the Prince of Darkness, a name. Startled, it took her a while to realize her hand must also have written it down. Looking at the yellow pad, she saw it, a name. Letters blazing between otherwise illegible characters: “SAMMY”

Sensing Lucifer was about to finish talking for the day she discreetly flipped to the last page of the notepad and let her hand jot down the last remaining words of the Devil, before returning to the page on top.

“Well Doc, thanks for listening.” Lucifer stood up from the bench and helped her to her feet. “And don’t forget same time, same place next week.”

Her body was her own again, and for the first time since they had met, Ophelia regarded the man before her. She had been forced into a non-speaking role for weeks now, and it was high time she got some lines in this Foul Play. And as she walked away, Ophelia spoke her first: